


obliti privatorum

by leov66



Series: dum vivimus, vivamus [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Percy Jackson Fusion, Breaking News: Gods Are Terrible Parents, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Major Character Injury, consider this my take at the What Made Grantaire Sad And Cynical but with an au twist, ferre is barely mentioned but hey?? he is there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 08:23:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12229155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leov66/pseuds/leov66
Summary: [obliti privatorum, publica curate (latin):forget private affairs, take care of public ones, roman political saying which reminds that common good should be given priority over private matters for any person having a responsibility in the State]





	obliti privatorum

"You should sing more often, I love your voice," Enjolras laughs before pressing a gentle kiss to his boyfriend's neck. He's let his hair loose at last and there's even a little flower crown in it, similar to the one on Grantaire's head. 

 

"You're leaving in two days, I'm too sad to sing," the other replies. "Besides, I barely remember anything, love, I'd have to ask Cabin Ten for some recs, you know.” 

 

"They'd never leave you alone if you did. We'll go to a nice record shop when you come to California again and find something here, okay?"

 

"Okay. Two months and I'll come, I promise," Grantaire says, and kisses his hand. 

 

It's one of those rare July afternoons when it it's just the right temperature to enjoy the outdoors and not melt or die from a sunstroke. They're not that far away from Camp Half-Blood, and their weapons are lying somewhere in the green grass, long ago forgoten along with Grantaire's shirt. 

 

Enjolras' Roman tatoos stand out against his pale skin, the SPQR, the eagle symbol (a descendant of Jupiter, the god of gods and the king of kings - it's fitting, Grantaire noticed a long, long time ago), the twelve lines indicating twelve years of service (impressive, considering they're eighteen). He doesn't wear the orange t-shirt, either, prefering his purple one over it, the rare ocasions being messy mornings in Cabin One when Grantaire's still asleep on the other side of the bed and Enjolras has some thingns to tend to, or those months in Camp Jupiter when the stars align just right, or rather _just wrong_ in their case, and he can't leave at all for six, seven months. He's long ago stopped caring about what other people said, and so far it’s only done him good.

 

"You better come, or else 'Ferre threatens you with the dogs again."

 

"Come on, he likes me, we both know the arrow accident was _an actual accident_!"

 

Before he gets to say anything else, Enjolras is silenced with another kiss. Grantaire's hands are in his hair, pulling at the golden curls just the way he likes it, and his warm breath ghosts over his neck. It's one of these moments when Enjolras is so in love he's afraid his heart might not take it all. 

 

There's a rumble somewhere in the woods, and they part hastily. Roughly twenty seconds later, Grantaire's shirt is back on and they've both got their weapons in hand, ready for combat. 

 

"Ten seconds", Grantaire whispers, "and we go there."

 

The area's supposed to be clear, since they're not far from the Camp. Enjolras sucks in a breath and thanks the gods they took short-range weapons instead of their usual spear and bow. Sure, arrows might be deadly, but they also leave splinters in your hands when you try to stab something with it. He might be a fighter, but he’s not a barbarian, thank you very much.

 

Another sound, like someone stepped on a twig. They share a quick glance, walking deeper into the woods. 

 

 _What the fuck_ , Grantaire thinks. It’s literally just a guy, in the middle of a Long Island forest. What the actual fuck. 

 

Enjolras is the first one to collect himself and speak. ”May we help you?”

 

_Yeah, that’s right. Two armed teenagers, one with a Camp Half-Blood shirt and one with a SPQR shirt, ask you if they could help you in the middle of a fucking forest. Absolutely gonna work._

 

The guy turns around. There’s something unsettling in the paleness of his skin and the gleam in his eyes. It’s almost like something Grantaire has seen before, but can’t quite put a finger on it. He cocks his head in a gesture of arrogance.

 

”Fancy seeing you again, soldier boy,” he says to Enjolras, while Grantaire resists the urge to punch him. 

 

”No offense, but who the _fuck_ are you?”, the blond says, very confused and frowning.

 

”The name’s Montparnasse, if you need to know. Don’t you remember my brothers? They were so easy to kill, weren’t they?”

 

Realisation flashes in Enjolras’ eyes, and in a split second Montparnasse’s form changes. He transforms into some kind of dark angel, with pitch black wings, surrounded by winds. 

 

”He’s a _ventus_ , ’Taire, careful, they-”

 

He doesn’t get to finish, because lightning strikes right where Grantaire stood half a second before. That’s when Enjolras’ Imperial Gold sword comes in handy, in an attempt to slice through Montparnasse’s cloud-ish form. It’s futile, but it’s enough of a destraction for them to decide how to fight, and Grantaire attacks from behind right away. 

 

Their battle instincts from hours upon hours of training and, you know, _actual fighting,_ kick in quickly, and for a while the three of them play a game of hit-and-dodge, with the air practically sizzling with electricity. That’s when Enjolras doesn’t pull away in time, and the look on his face when he’s struck by lightning is enough to make Grantaire’s heart freeze in his chest.

 

Time stops, and all he can see is his boyfriend collapsing to the ground. He must’ve screamed, but he doesn’t even remember. There’s something different in the way he moves now, sharpening his sight and quickening his blows. One attack after another, he fights and fights and fights until all there is is a pile of golden dust all over him, in his hair, on his clothes, everywhere, and it makes him feel sick. 

 

Enjolras lies where he fell, unmoving. Even like that, he’s more beautiful than anything Grantaire has ever seen. He reminds him of Achilles, and he wouldn’t mind being his Patroclus if it meant keeping him alive. 

 

”You can’t be dead, not by fucking lightning, your granddad is literally Zeus, you can’t-”

 

He doesn’t finish, his throat is too tight to let out a single sound. As he kneels by his side, all surroundings are blurry and the only thing he sees is the boy he loves. 

 

” _Ange,_ love, please, you’re stronger than this, you can’t just…”

 

Silence. Grantaire knows time is slipping through his fingers, and he raises his eyes to the sky.

 

”He’s your grandson, for fuck’s sake, don’t you care about him?”

 

Silence. He shouldn’t have expected anything else.

 

”Nothing? You’re just gonna watch? We’re nothing but pawns in your fucking games?”

 

Perhaps he is too daring, going way too far. He remembers the stories about those who offend gods, whose families suffer for generations, under curses and spells, but he doesn’t care. He’s the last of his line, anyway, he has no family but Enjolras.

 

There’s not a single cloud on the sky, and he’s sure Helios is laughing at them in his golden cage. 

 

”I’ve never asked for anything,” Grantaire says, ”not when she died, not when I was twelve and out in the streets, not when I felt like I’m gonna die every fucking day until I found the camp, _never_. But please, I’m begging you, don’t let him die. I’ll do anything, _please._ ”

 

Of course he wouldn’t listen. He’s got more children to care about, better children to care about. Grantaire’s always been the black sheep, the one who couldn’t match the rest. Sure, he’s the camp’s best shooter and the younger kids call him Michael Jordan when he plays with them, but what’s the point if it’s only because a god decided his mom was kinda hot?

 

 _Vanitas vanitatum et omnia vanitas._ They’re all unimportant, unneeded. Before that, his faith, in fortune, in _something_ after death, in _something_ in the sky, was one of the few stable things in his life; but now, as life seeps out of the only person that actually cared about him and loved him for who he was, he can’t believe in anything at all.

 

”Apollo, _Father_.” 

 

He’s started crying, he realizes, but it feels so detached that he doesn’t even care.  Breathing seems like an impossible task and there’s that uncomfortable weight over his shoulders he’s fought so hard to let go of yet now heavens could crumble and he wouldn’t notice. Taking in every little detail of Enjolras’ face, fully aware it’ll probably be the last time, something deep inside him breaks and he sobs like a child, holding onto a dying body. 

 

The life they wasted and the life they could’ve had, both intertwined inside his head, memories and dreams alike; studying in New Rome, sitting by a fire under a blanket and talking for hours, learning Greek and Latin from each other, going hiking and getting lost somewhere in the woods for two days, getting married, teaching little kids and telling them stories that are only a tad untrue about the world out there…it could go on for hours. 

 

That’s when he feels a gentle wind rising around them, carrying the smell of fresh strawberries with it. It’s almost like a breath, he realizes when he feels Enjolras’ chest rising, slowly but there.

 

Those wonderful blue eyes open, and he’s overwhelmed with relief.

 

(For a second, a flash of gold crosses his mind, the only sign his father has ever shown him.)

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on tumblr [@euphra-sie](https://euphra-sie.tumblr.com) if youd like to get an exclusive membership in my fanclub which includes hcs and requests
> 
> also uhh /clears throat **COMMENTS AND KUDOS COMMENTS AND KUDOS COMMENTS AND**


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